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Best Stories on the Web
All genres, all writers, all here.

Here, on Short-Story.me we publish only the highest quality stories from great writers around the world. To have work published on Short-Story.me is testament to the finest writing ability. Once published, we share your success with others, announce your achievement on Twitter, and give good writing, great publicity. The site receives in excess of 300,000 page views per month and is the number one site on search engines for various genres.

We have a category for everyone. So why not sharpen your skills, your pencil and your wits and commit that story to paper? Give our followers what they want to read and get your name in front of thousands of readers every week.

Best of luck in your writing endeavors.

 
We publish original Short Stories written by accomplished authors from around the globe. You can read them here and also sign up to have them emailed to you. See Subscribe button on left.

To enable further promotion of reading and writing, all stories will now appear on our sister site, www.short-stories.me.

 

A Position to Fill

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What had happened was this - at the time of the Great War, fought between Angels and Demons, Hell had not been completed. So when Lucifer and his fellow fallen were cast out of Heaven they had nowhere to go, other than to try and mix in with the inhabitants of the Earth and hope that nobody noticed. Apologies from the celestial council had been forthcoming with the promise that their new abode would be ready in time, but as to what time was never made clear. During this time the great Architect, The Watchmaker himself had decided to take a vacation, as he was about due and quite frankly needed the rest. Obviously the job of running everything, everyone and every time was not something that could not be left to its own devises, and so an advert was placed in the job vacant section of the Celestial Times and read thus:

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Rainy Windows

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Mike watched the rain droplets roll down the driver’s side window. The small drops beginning at the top slowly joined more droplets, eventually creating one single raindrop to travel down the window. A smile stretched across his face as he remembered the days of riding in the back seat of his parents’ car, choosing raindrops to win in races down the window.

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The Haunting at Midnight

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The old man walked gingerly down the dim lighted back alley official known as Keegan Street.  Once a bustling commercial area of Porterville, the old street was now in a state of decay and long forgotten by most people living in the area.  He walked silently, head down, much like any other man in his late 80’s.  But Argus McKane was not like other men.  That’s for sure.

McKane stopped at an old grey door with peeling paint and fumbled for his keys.  Argus had lived at 105 Keegan Street for longer than he could remember and could walk the area almost blindfolded.  Which was good given his failing eye sight and feeble condition.

The old man opened the door and went inside. 

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The Monster of Jenkins County

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“Come on Tommy.  You’re such a slowpoke.”

11 year old Jerry McCutchen grabbed the arm of his friend Tommy O’Brien and pulled him toward the woods.  The two boys were standing in the backyard of the O’Brien house on a Saturday morning in mid-July.  The backyard was long, almost 60 yards in length, and ended at a small hill that dropped off into the Jenkins County woods in southern Louisiana.  The boys had explored the woods in the past and had enjoyed a number of youthful adventures while growing up in this rural community.  But for some reason, Tommy O’Brien seemed hesitant to go on another exploration of the woods.

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The Wendigo

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‘We were done making our rounds and heading home, walking, we’d cut through the woods. Then there was an opening and we come on it.’

‘Blood, everywhere. Splattered on the trees, the grass, the creek, everywhere. At first, we figured it was a pack of wolves. We’d seen it sometimes, they can’t scavenge and start hunting deer. The worst was when they breed with feral dogs. But this wasn’t like that.’

‘Something had run up on a den of deer. Wolves won’t attack a den, Coyotes neither, because they’d get too much of a fight. There were three, I think, three bodies. Just torn apart. You’d see a head here, a leg here, and a torso there. Predators don’t do that. They don’t leave behind scraps. What had done this hadn’t done it for food. It had done it for fun.’

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Morvah

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Morvah was falling behind her lover – she was heavy with child. They had been walking for hours through the dense forest looking for a suitable site to start their new life. Morvah was very young; she wore her long brown hair in plaits. She was dressed in a gown that dragged through the mud and constantly caught under her feet. The thick mud sucked at her feet and covered her sandals, making it hard to walk without slipping. She had a cloak wrapped round her shoulders; this did not shield her from the elements and her body was hunched over trying to keep herself warm from the heavy rain and constant wind. Her face was pale and raw from the rain and wind; her eyes almost shut.

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Golden Oldies

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Jimmy Chief walked into the living room while balancing a bowl of cereal in one hand and a cup in the other hand.  He said, “Figure out any thing more about the black box filled with those old gold coins in it, Dad?”

The twelve inch square black box sat on the coffee table in front room of the log cabin at Chrissie’s Resort on Squaw Lake.  The Northern Wisconsin resort was one of the favorite R and R haunts for the two six foot tall Native American detectives.  They had known Chrissie and her curmudgeon mother for years.

However, their vacation had been interrupted.  Their friend, Ron Soaring Eagle, left the black box with the Chiefs along with the story behind it.

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Disquiet Teen

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Thomas was a sluggish, hulking twenty-eight year old man with slightly hunched shoulders and a slow air about him. He had always housed a disquiet teen within.  The teen was pernicious.  And though Tom should have known better, the young teen's compulsive ideas and acerbic sense of humor put him in crap situations repeatedly.

It was the teen's fault that Tom lost his girlfriend in a dart game.  Patsy had sat at the bar, drank her beer, and pulled at the long strands of her brown hair that she wore swept back from her face.  Her red nose should have let Thomas know she was cold, but he kept playing darts.  Perhaps he didn’t even notice her nose; he was encapsulated by her heavy handed application of ocean blue eye shadow and bubblegum pink lip gloss.

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